The poem below has a dimensional depth to it, a visual imagery that is allegorical of a much deeper spiritual meaning and truth. He paints a picture, but no one image he conjours is random or for visualization alone. They all have significants to the message of the poem. I find this true with most of Robin's poetry, having read at least 500 of his poems to date. He is a true master poet!

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I Was ThereBy Robin B. Lipinski

Battle of ground, covered bare with the flow of corruptionThey came to take what was, they came to take it allaway.

Away in distant lands, different worlds, sat a mother wondering, a father rememberingyesterday.

Yesterday was a moment for growing, a forest tall, green,healthy, and vibrant,surrounded by emerald sea filled with singing mermaids,sirens riding, whales toll the bell,elves weaved magic, while dragons created suns.

Suns darkened by stain of disbelief,folded flowers drained of warmth.Imps imprisoned of ground,battle of ground, covered bare with the flow of corruption.

I don't claim superior knowledge of poetry but I know what I like. I like this!

Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. – Neil Gaiman

Thanks for the kind comments, the spelling lesson, and the inspiration.***

A wind most foul breathed force upon the drunken foolStaggering back and forward; a soiled trailreplete with yellow teeth and urineand dare he, a smile?

Days became years became a life for this manLost family and familiarThin of soul, fat in spiritfloundering down this dark path.

Shifting winds of indecision brought my travel into his,I, with troublehe, with his damned smile...

"Can ye spare a coin, my good (burp) fellow?"

No, I have no means with definitely no desire, with a sneer I continued on my wayThose days, lost, I sober he drunk both in trouble.

They found me hanging from a noose down by the creek, note of debt inside my breast pocket, sneer still etched on my faceThey found him frozen in the snow, soiled clothes, foul smell rising and that damned smile still upon his face.

depressing to the nth degree, co-joined with a john the baptist type proclaiming a coming doom.

and and and,

maybe we just represent the universe, the cold uncaring universe born of a singularity, maybe an infinity of expansions and compressions, the same mass and energy, again and again, violent. And we quark based matter are a representation of that nature. Nothing more nothing less

Butwe can articulate in this fashion, aware of the opposites that make this life, this conundrum.

Eighty cycles or so around the star, big deal.

All twisted aboutlittle birds chirpingvery funnyunto the gods we swear

'Boom, Boom, Boom...'Rats escaping the sinking shipProps of the screw smashing the course mankind has set.

'Boom, Boom, Boom...'Israel picks up the tick of warSyria joins the danceWhile the Blood Moon April 15th bears the thin-lipped smile of fate.

'Boom, Boom, Boom...'Debauchery and play in the civilized worldDancing to the beat of self and hatehiding behind a wide-open smile,of deceit.

'Boom, Boom, Boom...'a dead baby plays with an imaginary rattleabortion; law of the land.

'Boom, Boom, Boom...'The hand of death rides his black horseStereo speakers behind the saddleas even Death likes heavy bassin his rap music of finality while reaping those doomed in the past, present, leaving the reverberations for the futureand still,there are those who don't believe who laugh.

In the dark, scurry little pads,quick, not to be stepped upon.Holding fast,her eyes made for the dark,she rules.Mine? I might as well be blind.Adjusts to movement and onlySo little light, little scene.As she follows-stalksI hear her behind meI move, she holds.I moved again and stopped.Holding for her prey, she can wait.Finally,to me she asks-states “are you not afraid?”She looks w/weapons, tools of death, sheathed.Others, waiting for her orders, ignoredshe sniffs for the tell-tale smell?Piss?She observes and asks again,“Are you not afraid? Most folks when they are about to die,have not a clue, just fear, and you?”I, my fear hidden, well, almost restingmy mind in an easier fashion.I answer, “fear yes, with acceptance tooreality, we are all borne to die. Does that answeryour question?”

She observes, I see a smile?a sneer? A??smirk?I can’t tell in this light, her black maskedface hiding her, identity, hiding face.

I think to myself, what she didn’t ask is what I fear,most is pain. I’m not goodand what will?my brainas the energy ceases to maintainfunction and flow?She looks at me again, “Let him go. NextTime, just,when you willnever know, golive like the rest,fear, immobilized,until it’s toolate to ask.”She removes herselfher minions, and the stench of deathburning flesh about them ride offvictims in tow, upon their crossesrow and row, the river Styx.Watching the lucky onesThey know their fate and I?Await, among the not-yet-dead, knowingface to face I stared, and bargain made:the cost;the time to ponder, watch and wait.Anon,the fear behind the not deadeyes, the fear of life, fear of death,the state of fear, a law, falsely controlled.

Who owns what when nobody knows howand why?Why is it yours or mine when mine is yours, or,I suppose it's been tried before as the law of probability states:'A room full of monkeys sitting at a typewriter could write Shakespeare...'William would die again if this happened by some screaming primatesand there goes another copyright.

We all came into a world with nothing but a cord and blood and a cry.We all will leave with nothing; maybe at most a gurgle or gasp, and what do we leave behind?Nothing, nothing, nothing,as those damned monkeys sitting in front of a typewriter will steal my copyright.

I do enjoy your expansion in the poetry realm Mark, you also appear to be enjoying the endless possibilities. As for Poe, if he were alive today and could experience the freedoms and access to what was once forbidden...his poetry written today would make his old 'stuff' seem primitive (all in my opinion of course)***

Poor Old Poe

Ergo the moment she cast her scorn upon my lipsPuckered stallion prancing at the chanceSporting ego lost upon littered street of lost trialsPoundingPoundingPoundingnow looking high this winged curse.

She with her painted hasteI with my folded cardsTable laden silver and plate; feast not the poor.Legs winding down this seductiona curse.

PoundingPoundingPoundingleft to empty seat, warmth fading as her shadow lost the sun.

Lost this chafe of beingThoughts charred, burnt now asunderThis house lost with gabled rust, gilded paint faded, cracked path of well worn trailYes,PoundingPoundingPoundingDust...